


Liminal State

by livenudebigfoot



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Competence Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: He will never quite be one of them, but it doesn't seem to matter. (Or, how Avi joined the mob in just ten easy steps)





	Liminal State

Avi catches his first glimpse of Viggo Tarasov through the glass that separates the conference room from the rest of the office. It will never sit right with him. Viggo looks, in that moment, like a trapped wolf pacing languidly along the length of the windows.

It’s enough to make Avi take a few steps back so he’s close enough to his boss that he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a murmur when he asks, “That’s him?”

“That’s him,” his boss answers grimly.

Avi knows  _ of  _ Viggo Tarasov in the same way that he knows of everyone in this city who matters. Viggo Tarasov has mattered for a while, but only slightly. He holds legitimate properties: hotels, restaurants, bars. Avi did his homework; he could list them if called upon. Viggo Tarasov also holds other, less legitimate properties. Avi couldn’t list those, not completely.

That’s a good thing. If Avi can’t find them, that means Tarasov’s covering his tracks. It means he’s scrupulous. Smart.

Of course, he could always be smarter. That’s where Avi comes in. Could come in. If Tarasov will have him.

Across the conference table, Tarasov lounges, sinks deep into the chair as though he owns it. As if it’s a better chair. He swivels a little, regards the room with heavy-lidded disinterest. “Your firm comes highly recommended.”

His English is good, but accented. Careful. His appearance is that way too: hair and beard neatly trimmed; shirt loud, but well-cut, and with a pocket square deliberately selected to match.

Avi’s boss speaks up, modestly: “We cleared up some minor issues for a. Ah. Fellow hotelier.”

“So I am told. My current legal counsel is. Indisposed. I require the services of a...reasonably intelligent individual who can adeptly manage the legal needs of my various assets and, when called upon, defend my employees in the course of their duties.” 

“As in…?”

“Immigration,” Tarasov says, dryly. “It’s a bit of a bitch.”

Avi’s boss laughs a little too loud and sharp.

Tarasov puts his feet up on the table. He’s flanked by two dark-suited men, both of them built like refrigerators, so nobody says anything. Even if they weren’t there, nobody would have said anything.

“Well, uh, Avi here,” and he claps his hand heavily on Avi’s shoulder, “was lead on the Continental. I think he’ll be able to meet your, uh, diverse needs. Very, uh, detail-oriented.”

Tarasov’s gaze flicks to Avi’s face and for just a second, Avi can’t quite breathe.

He hasn’t been caught out like this in a very long time. It’s not that Avi can’t shut up. He can. He’s worked on it. He’s a big believer in the power of shutting the fuck up and listening to the things people say when they’re trying to fill up quiet. But it’s like the tank has run dry and there are no more words left in him. 

It’s just the way Tarasov’s looking at him. Not with desperation, like he’s drowning, and not with disinterest, like he’s just another suit filling space. There’s this intense interest, this appraisal, like he’s considering Avi the same way he considered that tie when he was getting dressed this morning.  _ How will this help me do what I need to do today? _

Avi recovers. It takes only a second. “My CV,” he says as he pushes it across the table to Tarasov, whose gaze flicks idly across the page before darting to rest on Avi again, “is impressive, but not interesting. There are two parts that I think will be most relevant to you. The first is that I have a background in criminal  _ and  _ corporate law. Based on what you describe, I’m equipped to take on any of the trouble you’re dealing with right now and smooth the way for future endeavors. The second is my record, which speaks for itself.”

Tarasov’s gaze slips sheepishly back to Avi’s CV. He finds the information he’s looking for. He blinks once, slowly. When he lifts his head, the look on his face is sly, almost amused. “Future endeavors,” he says.

“Sir?” 

“You speak of future endeavors.”

“Maybe that’s presumptuous,” Avi allows, although of course it isn’t, “but you’ve acquired a lot of exciting prospects in a short amount of time. You’re aggressive, ambitious. I’d be surprised if you were content to just maintain those prospects instead of expanding them. Or repurposing them.”

Tarasov leans forward, an eerie, excitable light in his eye. “And you are the man to help me do this, hm?”

“I have some suggestions, if you’re interested in hearing them.”

Tarasov’s eyebrow lifts.

* * *

“I can’t fucking believe you told him how to  _ hide his illegal gambling operation better _ . To his face. To his goons’ faces. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to end up dead in an alley?”

Avi’s not, of course. For one thing, Tarasov’s reaching the kind of status where the bodies don’t get left in alleys anymore. “He should. If I know about it, the cops know about it.” Not that it matters much. “You’re getting hung up on the mob boss thing. Tarasov’s like anyone. He wants things done right, no bullshit. How’s he any different from the hedge fund guys who roll through here every day?”

“If I lose a case for one of those guys, they’re not gonna break my fucking legs.”

“Maybe not, but they’ll put your nuts in a vise. That’s not better.”

He sighs deeply. “Congratulations on your new client, Avi.”


End file.
